


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 3

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. Part 3 is my response to an Ask prompt on Tumblr where I originally conceived the idea for the redhead.





	The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 3

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events. And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Some duties in service to the crown are more…  _palatable_  to Ignis Scientia than others; he’d take six hours being wailed on by Gladio in the fitness center over the pomp and circumstance of  _yet another_ ambassadorial ball the Citadel seems to throw every other week. In this particular instance, however, the chastising he expects to receive may as well be one and the same.

Because it’s not the  _what_  that has Ignis fiddling with his cufflinks and cleaning his glasses for the fifth time out of nervous habit, but the  _who_. It’s expected of the Crownsguard to be seen in attendance with a companion at these ridiculous spectacles, as befits the men and women of royal rank; like Ignis, the woman who accepted his formal invitation is among the king’s inner circle—as lethal with a lance as she is with her wit—and, like Ignis, she is no stranger to these types of diplomatic events.

She is redheaded, beautiful, and the subject of much wanton attention within the palace grounds. To an outsider, she is seemingly defined by her complete and utter devotion to her work; more than one man has had their advances spurned by her in favor of dedicating her time solely to her duties—including one Gladiolus Amicitia, despite his dogged determination to see what lies beneath her royal raiments.

Some whisper that she is married to her work, and that she chooses to pleasure herself with her beloved lance rather than the hot shaft of a man’s sword. But what others don’t know— _including_  one Gladiolus Amicitia—is that she has warmed Ignis Scientia’s bed every night for the past six weeks, rendezvousing with him in secret at his apartment outside the Citadel’s walls in the early hours of twilight.

So the complication therein lies with the eyebrows they inevitably raise when the two finally enter the Citadel’s most illustrious ball room arm in arm; little irks Ignis more than calling attention to himself, and judging by the muted gasps and expressions of shock they are leaving behind in their wake, this little  _debut_ —for want of a better word—is beginning to turn into the procession heard ‘round the world.

But diplomats are nothing if not  _diplomatic_ , and the eyes trained on them eventually abate as they make their way before Prince Noctis and the king. Customary formalities are dispensed; Regis compliments the lady with his usual charm and a promise of the first dance, while Ignis cringes internally at the look of confusion currently crossing his princely friend’s bewildered features, until they are finally free to abscond to the far, less populated side of the great hall away from prying eyes.

“Ignis,” she says in a low voice, for his ears only. “The crowds have me feeling rather stuffy at the moment, so I was going to take a short walk. Would you like me to fetch you a drink?”

He relaxes a fraction—she is far too shrewd to call him  _Darling_  within fifty yards of the palace walls—and nods. “I could go for an Ebony about now.”

“Of  _course_  you could,” she replies wryly, and Ignis allows himself exactly thirty seconds to indulge in the fantasy of relieving her of her green silk gown—the one that matches her eyes—as he watches her disappear into the crowd.

But his mind only makes it fifteen seconds through his immoral scheming before his thoughts are interrupted by a thumping on his back. “How much did that cost you?” a teasing voice from behind him asks.

Ignis turns to face his brother-in-arms. “I beg your pardon?”

Gladiolus’ grin doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and Ignis can hear the inkling of envy in the big man’s tone. “You saying you  _didn’t_  have to bribe the Draconian just to get her to throw you a bone?”

Ignis stares blankly at his friend-turned-apparent-rival for the evening and sniffs irritably. “I asked. She accepted. Maybe if you spent more time looking into her eyes instead of down her tunic…”

“Or  _maybe_ ,” Gladio chides jovially, “she just ain’t that worried about you trying anything on her. Every girl has one of  _those_  friends, right?”

Ignis resists the urge to roll his eyes; the rumors of his ambiguous sexuality—or whether he even has one to begin with—had made themselves known to him many years prior, and he’d been mostly content to keep people guessing.

 _Mostly._  “Right.”

The aroma of richly brewed coffee is suddenly swirling in his nostrils; a glance over both of their shoulders reveals a parting in the crowd and a lithe body clad in emerald silk walking toward them. “Your Ebony,” the redhead purrs when she reaches the two Crownsguard.

“Thank you,” Ignis says, only barely managing to stop himself from tacking on the usual  _My Dear_. Gladio offers an overly-exuberant smile to the woman as she passes Ignis his beverage, then takes her delicate fingers in one hand and presses them to his lips.

“You look ravishing as always,” the big man quips.

“You’re too kind,” she replies, and only someone with the mind of a strategist would be able to pick up on the satire that laces her voice.

“Ignis and I were just discussing the challenges a beautiful woman like yourself must face at these overblown chocobo festivals.” Gladio tosses his head casually back toward his friend and offers the redhead a wink. “If this guy’s coffee breath is too hot on your neck, I’ll be happy to take him off your hands for you.”

Ever the consummate professional, her tranquil facade remains supremely intact. “If Ignis oversteps his boundaries, I should like to teach him a lesson myself.”

Ignis very nearly snorts his Ebony onto his dress shirt. “Indeed.”

“Then perhaps I could offer my services as a dance partner instead?” Gladio thumps his friend again on the back, a little more forcefully this time. “Iggy’s always been good at sharing.”

The redhead’s orbs widen at Ignis, and a hint of humor touches her lips. “Iggy?”

This time, the strategist does roll his eyes. “An old term of endearment from our youth,” he explains. “It appears  _some_  of us haven’t matured beyond the mental age of ten just yet.”

Gladio laughs heartily, deflecting the eyeful of daggers Ignis is directing toward him with an elbow to his ribs. He then takes two steps toward the center of the ball room and holds out a hand to the lady in green. “Will you do me the honor?” 

“Would that I could,” she says with exaggerated modesty, “but you’ll have to play second fiddle to the king this evening. Regis has already asked me for the first dance.”

As if on cue, the melody of a Tenebraen waltz fills the high ceilings of the ballroom; the redhead smiles politely at Gladio, then pivots away without batting so much as a single eyelash at Ignis.

It is a previously-agreed upon arrangement; the details of their involvement with one another is strictly prohibited from reaching the ears of other parties. Stolen glances and intimate contact would only raise more eyebrows, and neither of them are willing to risk blemishing their credibility within the king’s innermost circle with superfluous displays of affection better saved for behind closed doors.

Still, Ignis suppresses a long-suffering sigh; the price for such painstaking secrecy is steep, and in the deepest recesses of his mind he wonders how differently things might have turned out for him had he not been recruited for such a rigid and solitary lifestyle. His heart chafes against the shackles of his self-imposed restraint, and for the briefest of instants he feels the icy tendrils of bitterness clawing their way up his throat.

Gladio, his pride evidently none the worse for wear, ogles at the sight of the redhead’s tight figure gloved in even tighter silk. “It’s a good thing Prompto wasn’t invited tonight,” he says with a laugh, “because that kid has no filter, and you  _know_  he’d say what every man in this room is thinking.”

Ignis swallows the last of his antipathy, his fingers gripped tightly around his cup and his gaze glued to the flash of red and green twirling in the arms of the king. “A small mercy.”

Gladio shakes his head woefully and clutches at his chest, feigning an aching heart. “I’d lay my sword at Gilgamesh’s feet to take her home with me just once. I bet she’s got an amazing rack under those royal raiments of hers.”

Ignis suddenly tears his eyes away from the dance floor and glares at his friend in silent fury; it’s rather unlike the strategist to get testy over lewd remarks, or indulge in such primal instincts as petty jealousy. And besides—he has a reputation to uphold, and a secret to keep.

But Ignis is a human at his core, not the soulless magitek soldier some within the palace have insinuated. And in spite of the promises he has made to the woman who warms his bed at night, in spite of the necessity to conduct his personal activities with the utmost discretion, in spite of  _everything_  that has led Ignis Scientia to be put in this Astral-forsaken position, there are certain times in a man’s life that rules are required to be broken.

He narrows his spectacled eyes at Gladiolus and lifts his Ebony to his lips. “She does,” he says simply.


End file.
